


agnus dei

by g0ryllama



Series: Murrmin ;) [13]
Category: Moominvalley (Cartoon 2019), Mumintroll | Moomins Series - Tove Jansson, 楽しいムーミン一家 | Moomin (Anime 1990)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Blasphemy, Church Sex, Consensual But Morally Grey, Hair-pulling, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, M/M, Parishioner Snufkin, Priest Moomin, Religious Guilt, Repression, Semi-Public Blow Jobs, These tags make me roll my eyes but oop there they are, dont look at me, like on an extreme level
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-08
Updated: 2019-08-08
Packaged: 2020-08-13 02:43:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,105
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20166838
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/g0ryllama/pseuds/g0ryllama
Summary: Snufkin knows his desires are sinful, knows that the way the adorable Priest plagues his every wet dream is damning to the highest degree (well, that’s an exaggeration), knows how his silent transgressions must be judged by God Themself, seeing as a lot of them occur at the most inopportune moments, in the worst places.Like now, at Sunday mass, and all Snufkin can think of is getting positively rawed against the pulpit the Priest is currently reading from.Not good.





	agnus dei

**Author's Note:**

> excuses at the end notes pls dont look at me im sorry
> 
> if you want immersion (or basically wanna listen to what i listened to as i wrote this absolute filth) listen to this [playlist for the fic](https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLVk5p5O6yPoCGBa66Rdk9AkW2ij2pfUpl)

Snufkin knows his desires are sinful, knows that the way the adorable Priest plagues his every wet dream is damning to the highest degree (well, that’s an exaggeration), knows how his silent transgressions must be judged by God Themself, seeing as a lot of them occur at the most inopportune moments, in the worst places.

Like now, at Sunday mass, and all Snufkin can think of is getting positively rawed against the pulpit the Priest in mind is currently reading from.

Not good.

It’s not like it’s a passing thought (as though that’s any better), something he could wave off as a simple temptation, a whisper of damnation amongst the shouting of salvation around him.  


Wishful thinking, he admits, staring at the open cup of his hands as Reverend Moomin leads them through confession and imagining all of his sins spilling over the sides, through the gaps of his fingers, like water on a hydrophobic surface, black and tainting everything it touches.

Of course, at least seven eighths of them aren’t anything to do with the Reverend at all, but the ones that are slither worse than the rest, insistent and dirty and wrong and everything Snufkin knows he should despise but somehow he’s only fascinated more because of it. These sins are even worse than the ones the older members of the church whisper about whenever he passes, worse than the ones that make him want to cry into his pillow until God forgives him out of pity. And all he can feel at such a revelation is excitement.

Maybe it’s a good thing. Maybe it’s a sign that as long as he isn’t actually committing the sin, he’s allowed to think of it.

Wishful thinking again.

It was never like this before. As a child, his sins would sit comfortably in his palms until he was ready to let go of them, wash them away with everyone else’s and forget; just how it should be. As a teen, his sins thrashed and swore and cursed and blasphemed until he couldn’t hold them anymore, but still they would get washed away along with the rest, only staying in his mind if he left them there.

Now, well. Things just amounted.

Snufkin, if asked, wouldn’t know whether he is a good or bad person based on his sins alone. Really, it’s a question that no one should be asked because it’s impossible to answer. If you say you're a good person then you aren't, because you're ignoring how others perceive you but also all the sins you've undoubtedly committed; to be prideful and sure of yourself in such a way is a sin in itself. But if you say you're a bad person, you've condemned yourself. There's no way out, it's a catch-22, it's stiflingly difficult and in no way something Snufkin wishes to deal with.

But see, the sins in his hands, inky and deep and roiling like a distant storm, all point towards him being the worst kind of person, a devil in disguise, a creature of lust and desire and depravity.  


Desperate to corrupt the wonderful, kind and altruistic Priest who is somehow still talking about how their sins don't make them who they are, how they can free themselves from them if they just allow God to take them from them. With his almost white hair that is lit from all angles in rainbow colours by the stained glass and bright blue eyes that sparkle with joy and mirth and love, Moomin is an angel on earth, of that Snufkin is sure.

No way a human is that perfect, that loving, that gentle.

His sins seem to react to his thoughts, wiggling and yearning in earnest.

"- let them go, and be cleansed of your sins." The Reverend says, smiling with such a reassuring smile that Snufkin might almost be able to ignore the way his hands stay stained with his transgressions as he turns them upside down, no matter how 'cleansed' he is told he is.

* * *

The post-mass tea and biscuits is always awkward for Snufkin. He doesn't get along with any of the other church-goers (they're all either too old and gossipy or just not his kind of people, and they don't like him, and he doesn't care but it just makes him uncomfortable) and he never really knows what to do.

He doesn't  _ have _ to stay. He could just leave after mass. Really, he doesn't even need to go to church. He could just stop.

But he has all these sins, and they need to go somewhere (and how else would he get to see Moomin on a weekly basis?).  


“Hey Snufkin!” The Reverend grins as he joins him in his corner, handing him a cup of tea (made exactly how he likes it, because of course), leaning on the table next to him. “You seem down today.”

Snufkin laughs, ignoring the way the two sugars in his tea suddenly make his mouth taste too sweet. “I’m not entirely sure confession worked today.”

It’s easy, talking to Moomin. He doesn’t judge him for his past transgressions and ongoing sins, has never whispered about him the way everyone else does, endlessly supportive yet not pitying. He’s perfect. Snufkin knows he shouldn’t put people on a pedestal the way he is, but how can he not when the other really is just that amazing?

“Would you like to confess individually?” He asks then, and Snufkin, impulsively, says yes, because time alone with Moomin is the worst idea possible and yet at the same time, everything he wants.

* * *

“Forgive me Father, for I have sinned,” Snufkin begins, his voice a simple exhale, staring blankly at the deep red velvet curtain in front of him, partitioning him off from the rest of the world. Now, it’s just him and Reverend Moomin, and that’s both a good thing and a terrible thing. “It has been… A month and three days since my last confession.”

Moomin stays silent on the other side of the wooden wall, and if Snufkin were to look, he’d see his white hair through the gaps in the pattern that allow their voices to be heard by each other. Instead, he keeps his eyes glued straight ahead.

“... I’ve been having… Lustful thoughts about someone that I shouldn’t feel that way for.”

Well, cut straight to the chase. The Priest hums softly, encouragingly, and Snufkin has to wonder how he manages to keep from calling anyone a terrible person whenever they confess to him.

“I know I shouldn’t be feeling this way about them, not even a little bit, after all, they can’t ever return these feelings, nor would God look kindly upon them for it. But I can’t rid my mind of… These visions.” Snufkin knows he’s being too vague, knows Moomin is going to ask him to reveal his whole sin in all of its ugly truth for him to absolve him of it, but does he even want that?

Given the choice, would Snufkin even want to stop thinking of him that way? Even now, all he can think of is sneaking into the other side of the confessional and showing Moomin exactly what sin he’s talking about.

“Why can’t they return your feelings? It isn’t a bad thing to want to be intimate with someone,” Moomin begins, a little too knowing as always. After all, Snufkin purposely didn’t say married because, well, Moomin isn’t, and he can have relationships (their last parish Priest was married with children after all), but… Well, Moomin probably wouldn’t want to be with another guy. “And it doesn’t matter what the other parishioners think, God doesn’t view you as any different to a straight person.”

Snufkin’s next inhale is shaky, it still feels weird to hear someone so religious be okay with his identity (he remembers begging for forgiveness last year for being gay, and how calmly Moomin had told him that God would never hate one of Their children for loving differently to others). “That’s… Not really the problem.” Well, it is, but it isn’t.

“Do you want to explain it more, then?”

“... It’s the thoughts that are the problem,” might as well just go all in. If he gets banned from the parish then he can just fall victim to his sins and go to Hell like he’s meant to. “And where they occur.”

Again, Moomin stays quiet and gives Snufkin time to order his thoughts before he can continue.

“... The worst ones happen here,” the fabric of his trousers scrunches up beneath his fists, because Moomin won’t judge him. He won’t. He can tell him. “I think of getting sodomised against your pulpit, of riding him on the pews, of giving head in these booths, all whilst God watches and not caring because I just  _ want _ so badly.”

And it feels refreshing to admit it, until the silence drags on too long and Snufkin begins to worry that he said too much.

That is, until Moomin clears his throat and asks Snufkin a question, quiet and yet sure at the same time. “May I confess to you too?”

Snufkin frowns (what?) but he hums in affirmation, confused and concerned. Since when did the Priest have to confess? And to a parishioner no less?

“I too, have been having lustful thoughts along the same lines as you,” his voice is barely above a whisper, and Snufkin has to strain to hear what he’s saying, but once the words settle in, it’s like the other is shouting, and he has to resist the urge to tell him to be quiet. “Am I wrong too, if you are?”

And Snufkin wants to demand him to tell him everything. There’s a slight nagging doubt in the back of his head that says this is about someone else, but how could it be? Who else would he think about… In the same way? And why would he tell Snufkin about it? “Maybe. If you want to be.”

It feels like time stops, like anything could happen outside of the confessional, and neither of them would know.

Snufkin stands gingerly, flinging open the heavy red curtain before slipping into the other side, shutting the door behind him and staring at the way Reverend Moomin seems to be both shocked by his presence in his booth, and relieved that he got his message. His blue eyes look almost black in the darkness of the small space, his hair shining under the light spilling in through the gaps in the wood, like a halo, and yeah, this is exactly what Snufkin has been imagining, and yet somehow even more perfect.

The hardwood hurts his knees as he drops down, but it barely registers, his mind far too preoccupied with thoughts of tasting the other, of finally giving in to his sinful temptations. He’d laugh at how Moomin’s cock is essentially the apple to his Eve, his simple encouragement the snake, and God won’t be able to do anything to stop this, but he’s too busy with moving the Priest’s robes out of the way so he can slip a nimble hand into his trousers and palm the bulge pressing against his boxers insistently.

Snufkin’s mind feels a lot emptier than he thought it would, the buzzing of damnation silenced by the joy of finally committing the taboo he’s been yearning for for so long, guilt and shame not even registering as he relishes in the way the fabric beneath his fingers dampens. Is it the wrong-ness of this that’s got Moomin so excited, like it is for Snufkin, or is it the way he looks, on his knees, all for him?

He likes to think it’s a mixture of both.

How  _ does  _ he look? Eyes wide and pupils enlarged in the dark, ginger hair plastered to his forehead from the nervous sweat and excited static electricity passing between them both, lips wet from how he can’t stop his mouth from flooding at the promise of something  _ more _ . He hopes it’s a nice view for the other.

Small gasps leave Moomin’s lips every now and then, not nearly as wrecked as Snufkin wants them to be (but that can come later), and he regrets not kissing him first, not straddling his lap and looping his arms around his neck and making out with him until his lips are bruised and his teeth ache, but that too can come later.

He slides his fingers beneath the waistband of his boxers, coaxing his cock out of its confines, his own member twitching in his pants as the heat emanating from the other sends his mind into a frenzy. It’s hot and heavy and thick, and Snufkin wants it inside of him as soon as possible.

“Are you sure?” Moomin asks from above him, and Snufkin looks up at him with a frown. Of course he’s sure, he’s the one that got down on his knees as soon as he could.

“Absolutely. Are you?” Because really, he should be the one asking that question in the first place.

“Completely.”

And at the affirmation that he definitely wants it too, no matter how wrong or taboo this is, Snufkin slides his hand down the length and back up again, letting his tongue slowly lick a long stripe up the underside of it. The taste is heavy and salty and perfect, a taste he knows is going to plague his every dream from here on out, addictive and sinful and worth savouring.

Moomin’s hands seem much too tense against the fabric of his robes, as if he wants to bury them in something and grip tight, so Snufkin guides his hand with his free one into his hair, locking eyes with him and smiling. At first, Moomin seems hesitant to really dig his fingers in, but Snufkin makes a point to swirl his tongue around the tip languidly whilst his hand twists loosely around the shaft, and the Priest has little choice but to succumb, fingers tugging on his strands too gently, but noticeably now.

Better, Snufkin thinks, humming in appreciation at a particularly hard tug, sliding his tongue against the slit teasingly and collecting the precum beginning to leak out. He can feel the other’s eyes on him like he’s burning a hole in his head, and the attention feels both gratifying and unnerving. Or maybe it’s God, watching him through Moomin’s eyes and hating everything They see. Snufkin feels somehow even more turned on by that thought, and that’s wrong on a thousand different levels.

Moomin says something under his breath that Snufkin couldn’t catch, teeth gritted and fingers curling around his hair more sturdily, head thrown back against the back wall. It can’t be comfortable, the benches aren’t made for receiving blowjobs, but he doesn’t seem to be uncomfortable in the slightest.

Snufkin wraps his lips around the head, still pressing his tongue against the slit, placing gentle kisses against it before moving back a little to press more kisses down the length and back up again, teasing and slow, loving the way it makes the Priest curse quietly. That is, until a shoe presses carefully against his clothed crotch, a question in the other’s eyes when he looks up at him in shock.

He nods anyway. Really, he has worse wishes than cumming in his trousers in church, and it somehow fills him with a shame (that he loves) to be under the other’s control so wholly (he’s  _ stepping on him _ ).

He takes the tip back into his mouth, sucking gently, stroking what isn’t in his mouth yet with his fist, thumb and finger barely touching around his girth. A fire burns deep in his gut as Moomin pushes his foot down against his erection, moaning quietly around him and no doubt sending vibrations through his cock that must feel great, if the choked off groan he receives tells him anything.

Determined to finish soon (and wary of the time, because someone will undoubtedly try to find the Reverend after a while), Snufkin takes as much of his member into his mouth as he can, still sucking, cheeks hollowed and throat fluttering against the head, and then he takes more, holding back the need to gag as his cock presses insistently down his throat, beginning to cut off his airways.

But it feels amazing, and coupled with the way Moomin rubs circles against his crotch with the toe of his shoe, Snufkin finds himself close to bursting already. Well, it’s not a surprise given the situation, and how satisfying it is to finally be living out one of his deepest, most sinful fantasies of all.

His hand continues to twist around the last couple of inches that won’t fit in his mouth, tongue pushing and sliding against every vein that stands out on his member, swallowing rhythmically to contract around the head.

Moomin pulls his hair hard, eliciting a desperate moan from Snufkin, and pushing him to his orgasm suddenly, his cock pulsing for a few moments before the pressure from the other’s shoe begins to hurt, underwear wet and sticky and uncomfortable, which only makes him feel even more gratified. It’s gross and wrong and sinful and amazing. Who knew sinning could feel so good?

Snufkin carries on sucking, trying to take him further (only to his detriment, gagging a few times), desperate to taste his release. It doesn’t take long before he’s spilling into his mouth and down his throat, thick and hot and salty, biting his lip to stay quiet as his orgasm forces his hips to buck into Snufkin’s mouth hard.

He swallows every last drop as his cock slips out of his mouth, holding the base gently and licking him clean. They lock eyes again, and it’s like they finally understand each other.

* * *

Snufkin’s hands stay stained with his sins at next week’s confession during mass. The sins have multiplied; he now holds both his and the Priest’s, overflowing and unable to stay still, and when they smile at each other when everyone else has their heads bowed down to think of their sins, they both know that the best way to sin is together.

Besides, it isn’t just Snufkin’s hands that are tainted now. He thinks of how he was screaming the Lord’s name in vain as Moomin plowed into him roughly, pressing him against the pulpit, one hand in his hair and the other stroking him to completion as he took his own pleasure from Snufkin’s entrance, and smiles even more.

God hasn’t stopped them yet, and he wonders if They ever will.

**Author's Note:**

> oof hi im sorry please forgive me
> 
> i have almost 2 decades worth of religious bullshit and repression built up in my brain and with nowhere else to go, it went here. i have no way to defend myself. its just a lot. no i never thought about fucking my priest but somehow i always end up here anyway.
> 
> any religious inaccuracies im sorry for but i couldnt be bothered to do research for this filth so idc. also its been way too long and yet no time at all since i was a choir girl in my local church brigade okay? dont wanna think about it but some of it is probs accurate enough lol
> 
> anyway. what better way to deal with religious guilt that rears its ugly head when ur drunk than to make two of ur fave characters (one you relate to too much) fuck it all out in a house of God Themself? ur right, there isnt. shh.
> 
> cool
> 
> alt title was 'sorry daddy i've been naughty' so i saved you all there
> 
> (thanks to fleabag season 2 on bbc 3 for unleashing all the 'sexual tension in a confessional is hot' thoughts that i shouldn't have been having)
> 
> im never looking at this again.


End file.
